


There Is Only Power

by Frumpologist, SAYS



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark Humor, Fluff, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Second Wizarding War, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:24:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frumpologist/pseuds/Frumpologist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SAYS/pseuds/SAYS
Summary: For Courtney - Percy’s coming of age story is not quite as gallant as Harry Potter’s. For one thing, Percy is quite certain that The Boy Who Lived never fell in love with a Malfoy.





	There Is Only Power

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: *laughs so hard she nearly falls off her seat and cries* Courtney, I know you’re going to know who I am and I don’t even care. This was too good to pass up when you told me to write this for you in between fest pieces. I’m a liar and I’m sorry but otherwise I never would have ended up writing this… whatever it is. LOL Love you, dude. 
> 
> And special shout out to an amazing alpha, Vino Amore. You’re a legend and I adore you!

**_Before_ ** **Quidditch World Cup, Ireland vs Bulgaria, 1994**

If someone would have told him ages ago that sports could be fun, Percy probably would have done the same thing he did when someone told him that Hogsmeade was fun: pinch his lips, shake his head, and walk away while pondering about the degradation of wizarding kind. That said, as he assisted his father to set up the tent, Percy watched the amassed crowd with a growing sort of pride. He helped with it, creating such a spectacular pitch for the Quidditch World Cup. Even if wizarding kind was traveling to Hell in a handbasket, he was proud of what he’d accomplished to help make them more comfortable on their journey there, at least.

“Perce,” his older brother – the one with the earring – called to him from the other end of the tent. “You’ve got to aim your wand at the rope. The rope. Perce, the  _ rope _ ; that’s the stake, the stake’s not meant to be pulled by the spell, oh my – ”

Percy, for all his book smarts and smugness, was not exactly an outdoorsy sort of person. He didn’t know what the spell would do to the stake. Not until the stake splintered to bits and the Earringed Mongrel had to piece it back together with some dirty hippie spell. Percy shrugged as his brother squatted beside the concave portion of the tent and stared up at him with a weird expression on his face. Almost like he enjoyed the moment of bonding over a broken piece of wood, which was simply ridiculous because all of that took far too much effort for Percy to enjoy any of it. 

  
Efficiency, that’s what Percy liked. Lean efficiency and workstreams that made sense. Not this higgledy piggledy nonsense among family to hoist a tent eight feet into the air by weathered rope and rotted stakes. 

Honestly, every redhead within a dozen feet of him had a laugh. But Percy remained stoic until he abruptly decided to venture off to find his new boss, Barty Crouch. He didn’t say goodbye, didn’t alert anyone to his sudden departure. Just, as Percy was wont to do, took off in the direction of the Official Ministry Boxes at a quick pace and a self-important, pinched expression on his face. 

What he happened upon was not something he could have predicted, and Percy cared nothing for the unpredictable side of life. An imposing figure in black robes lined in dark emerald silk stood opposite of Mr. Crouch. They were men of opposites; Lucius Malfoy was tall and lean with platinum blonde hair that fell past his squared shoulders, and Barty Crouch was a shorter, rounder man whose unnaturally dark hair was clipped close to his ears and matched the mustache that twitched nervously above his lip. 

The men appeared to be in some sort of verbal altercation, and Lucius was clearly winning. Mr. Crouch’s back was pressed to the wall and Lucius Malfoy preyed on him with a vicious frown on his face. Really, Percy thought, he shouldn’t get involved. Whatever his boss had done to upset the Malfoy Patriarch, he likely shouldn’t have done. However, ambitious and opinionated as Percy tended to be, he couldn’t very well allow a Malfoy to bully his way into what were clearly Ministry affairs. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Crouch,” he interrupted them confidently, ignoring the way they both half-turned and eyed him closely. “Is there something I can assist you with? Perhaps alert the Minister to your arrival?”

His eyes glided between the two men and lingered over the imposing frame of Malfoy. Impeccable robes, dragon hide boots, polished cane, sharp jaw. The man was as well put together as one could possibly be, and yet the tight lipped frown on his face would lead a wizard to think that having everything galleons can buy is somehow, someway not enough. 

“Weasley, is it?” Lucius asked him with a pale, winged eyebrow lifted over one eye. “Following in your father’s footsteps, I see. Getting involved in things that don’t concern you.”

Percy met his strict gaze and his hands joined behind his back. He ducked his head quickly and smirked. “All due respect, Mr. Malfoy, the Head of the Department for International Cooperation concerns me deeply. As such, I am required by the duties of my job description to ensure he arrives post haste to the Minister’s side on such an occasion as the World Cup. You may not understand the functions of a Senior Ministry Official such as Mister Crouch, however-”

“Quite enough, Weatherby,” Mr. Crouch interrupted and if Percy didn’t know better, he’d imagine that the severe look he tossed in his direction was almost punishment. “Quite right, Lucius, I must retire to the Minister’s side as he’ll no doubt be expecting my full attention.”

As Mr. Crouch made to leave, Lucius grabbed his arm at the elbow and leaned into his ear. Percy didn’t hear what the man whispered, didn’t really care to eavesdrop, but whatever it was caused his boss to pale considerably. 

“Come along, Percival,” Mr. Crouch beckoned and plopped his bowler hat over the thinning hair on his head. He took off in the direction of the stadium and clearly expected Percy to follow immediately. 

Percy unclamped his hands from behind him and pinned Lucius with a haughty smirk. Malfoy lifted a crooked smile, thin and barely there, as he nodded his head in parting. 

“Until later, Weatherby,” he said quietly and then leisurely walked in the opposite direction. 

He really was much too mature to throw an indignant for over the name. He had an impulse to correct the older Malfoy but resisted because it would incite further criticisms and he really didn’t have time to waste allowing someone to question his character. So, he straightened his shoulders and sprinted to his boss’s side without looking back. 

**_After_ ** **Quidditch World Cup, Ireland vs Bulgaria, 1994**

Burnt fabric, that’s all he could smell. He ran through the various broken and fiery tents, the petrified families, and came upon the Weasley tent. His father and brothers were standing with wands drawn as they have orders to the younger children to hide.

Whispers of “death eaters” and “He Who Must Not Be Named” carried on every small gust of wind and haunted the dark, billowing smoke that filled the campsite. He’d never known panic and hysteria quite like this before and while he first turned foot to run to the Minister’s box, Percy saw a flash of long, ginger hair and Ginny immediately made him change direction. Make sure they’re safe and then go fight with the Ministry.  _ Family first, _ his father would say. 

“Percy!” Bill’s raspy voice called as he approached and then he shot a spell directly over his shoulder. Percy could barely duck, paralyzed by the sight of violet red light rushing toward him. “They’re coming, Percy, we have to  _ move _ !”

And so they did. Faster and deeper into the clearing, stunning hooded and masked wizards as they tormented the World Cup grounds. A family of muggles screamed as they ran past and Percy shot an impedimenta spell on the heels of the death eater that chase them. 

“Nice shot, bro,” Bill told him and Percy wondered if he’d ever heard praise from his older brother before. It sounded foreign, but made his chest puff and his confidence boost. “Let’s head to the woods and see if we can cut them off.”

He nodded once and stole from their tent. The marching group of hooded figures were close on their tracks and screams called through the night. Percy knee better than to look back; he couldn’t bring himself to even as he heard his father’s panting and grunts as he avoided dark spells being thrown at him. 

Several flashes went off at once and Percy was momentarily stuck in place. His heart beat hard and fast and it wasn’t until a sweeping, cold sensation flooded him that he remembered to keep moving. He didn’t see who relieved him from the stun, but his brother and father were nowhere nearby. The first step he took forward was wobbly and it was a damn fine coincidence that a pair of strong hands reached out to steady him. They also whipped him forward and into the line of trees that blocked off the pathway where the death eaters were marching forward through the campsite. 

“Bill?” Percy asked in a breath that swooped out from his lungs and ghosted across the cold night air like the thick smoke from a cigarette. It was so dark that he could barely make out the tall figure standing in front of him. “Dad?” 

Neither answered, and instead it was a rasp of a laugh and the rumble of muscles underneath his splayed hand. He didn’t realize he was pressed against anyone until their breathing caressed his ear and the stranger’s hand gripped his biceps. 

“Afraid of strangers in the night, Mister Weasley?” That voice, deep and sharp, cold and oddly melodic, made him immediately hold his breath. He knew that voice. “I think you’ll find I’m far more pleasant a man than those you’d find beneath the hoods tonight.” 

“Mister Malfoy.” He let the name fall through his lips still laced with the surprise he felt. The faintest of beat of a thrumming heart echoed between them. “I thought you’d be-“

“With the others?” Percy could feel the smirk, it practically sliced through the tension. His grip loosened on the redhead’s arm and he stepped back. “I am not so childish as others who support The Dark Lord. I have no desire to rot in a cell at Azkaban.” 

As Percy’s eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, he took in the man before him. Shoulders squared, hair still immaculate as it shined against the dark robes at his shoulders. His eyes flitted up and down Percy’s frame and a small smirk lifted his thin lips. 

Percy, who understood the art of self-preservation more than any other of his thrill seeking, adrenaline junkie brothers, jutted his chin once. He didn’t think to question Lucius on his obvious continued support for The Dark Lord; that wasn’t important. Lucius wasn’t part of the revel taking the spirit out of the event he spent so many months preparing for, and that, somehow, was worth more than whether or not the man before him agreed with He Who Must Not Be Named. 

“Perhaps it would be prudent, sir, if you would leave the area so as not to create the appearance of sympathy for those who don’t share your views.” 

Lucius tilted his head and Percy straightened his posture further. 

“Indeed, Mister Weasley,” Lucius said quietly. “I daresay the Ministry will be out for blood against those fools after tonight.” 

“The Ministry is logical, just, and fair,” Percy corrected him haughtily. “If I must, I will corroborate your whereabouts this evening.” 

The other man raised a pale eyebrow and without another word, vanished on the spot. 

 

**The Yule Ball, Hogwarts, 1994**

He wasn’t the type of man to enjoy the frivolity of formal dance events. In fact, Percy actively avoided those situations at all costs. Dancing, canoodling, the very idea twisted his gut and forced a concealed shiver to run through his body until his head snapped to the side and a gross “eurgh” sound escaped him. It had nothing to do with dressing in his finest robes or the screeching music that encouraged sweaty bodies to grind against each other in the name of  _ fun _ . No, all the hubbub around  _ romance  _ and  _ gentle swaying _ that creeped him out. 

Girls were animals when it came to romance. He’d watched Charlie flirt with Nymphadora once and she practically broke his foot for all his effort. Romance was dangerous, he decided, physically and psychologically. For Godric’s sake, did anyone actually look into how many deranged wizards there were who tried to use powerful spells and potions in the name of love? 

No, he decided long ago that romance was not for him. 

So, of course, when he found himself at the edges of a Christmas-style formal ball, Percy clung to the wall and allowed himself to engage only in conversation regarding the tournament or the necessity of his appearance in place of his boss, Mr. Crouch. 

“Your brother didn’t get so lucky,” an amused voice mentioned to him as they shook hands in greeting. His eyes met Hagrid’s, whose eyes were shining under the influence of mead, and he pinched his lips. Yet another reason to detest the events of gathered wizards; if there was to be grinding of bodies, the bodies would be well plied with alcohol to make everyone forget how positively disgusting the whole affair was. 

“Yes, well,” Percy informed him haughtily as he released Hagrid’s hand and smoothed down the dark green lapels of his robes, “Ronald took little to no care in answering mum about his favorite color and so she is teaching him a lesson.”

“She did it to him on purpose?” Hagrid barked a deep laugh that rumbled the floor at Percy’s feet. 

Percy nodded, not particularly grasping the humor. “A homemaker of seven hardly has time for the dalliances of one stroppy, teenaged boy.” 

Hagrid offered him a side-eye of some kind, but Percy knew the giant couldn’t possibly argue and so he lost interest in the conversation and turned from the man. There were other, more important, attendees, and he’d barely had a chance to speak with Headmaster Dumbledore regarding his expectations for Mr. Crouch’s attendance. 

“Ah, Mister Weasley!” 

The man had ears inside everyone’s head, Percy was sure. He hadn’t so much as thought about finding the headmaster and he appeared quite suddenly at his side. 

“Headmaster,” Percy greeted him, perturbed that perhaps the old man could read his thoughts easily. “Quite the extravagance, this.” 

The Headmaster smiled as if it were something to be proud of, rather than seeming genuinely bothered by the cost of such a frivolous venture. Of course he wouldn’t care, since the Ministry funded the entire length of the tournament. He probably ordered the fancy cheese, too. 

“The Ministry has been gracious,” Dumbledore told him as he gestured around the decorated hall. “When you have a moment, be sure to try the charcuterie tray. It’s simply divine.” 

Percy blinked. He opened his mouth to inform the headmaster that Mister Crouch intended on announcing his promotion to Senior Assistant himself, but took ill instead and had to assign Percy to attend this nightmare in ice himself. But, the headmaster was gone, off gallivanting around with Professor McGonagall and an excessively tall woman wearing far too much jewelry.

As the dancing began and everyone was lost in a sea of frilly dress robes, Percy made his way from the stuffy hall out to the courtyard. It wasn’t so much that he disliked attending the ball in lieu of his boss, but that he couldn’t quite place his purpose for being there. When the headmaster blew him off and no other Hogwarts or ministry official was in sight, Percy figured that his only purpose was to be a figurehead. Boring work, but the importance was too high to skive off. So, instead of finding some bright young witch to dance, and embarrass himself, with, Percy decided on fresh air and a walk around his alma mater. 

Fairy lights wrapped around ancient shrubbery and it was almost entirely lost on him. The only thing about the lights that stroked his fancy was the way they twinkled off the snow and made it melt under their heat. He understood it, felt it down to his bones. Under the right conditions, anything could change. It gave him hope for his younger siblings. Enough pressure and they would do the right things instead of ridiculous pranks or rebelling against authority. 

He was pulled from his ruminations by the crack of a snapping twig. He spun quickly on his heel and froze. Mister Malfoy stood a footstep away. Percy’s eyes raked down the patriarch’s body, from the deep, midnight colored robes to the silver fastens that gleamed under the fairy lights. He was a lithe man, but tall and imposing as he stepped forward to remove the scant space between them. 

“Mister Weasley,” Lucius greeted him with a sharp jut of his chin. He pressed his decorative cane against the cement at his feet. “I was expecting your employer, but I suspect he continues to take ill?”

Percy slowly raised his eyes from their perusal of the finest robes he’d ever seen and rested finally on stormy grey eyes. He barely faltered, despite the uneasy thrumming that ticked away in his heart. 

“Indeed, sir,” he answered in a stronger voice than he’d expected. “I represent the ministry this evening as Hogwarts engages in their… revels.”

“A smart choice by your superiors.” Lucius’ eyes roved first along Percy’s face, hitting each sharp curve before descending a lazy path along the dark green robes. “Interesting choice of palette for a Weasley.”

“Yes, well, the sorting hat did stall for half a second.” He’d never revealed such a thing before but found he wanted Malfoy to be proud of him.

“Imagine the…” his eyes snapped to Percy’s and his lips raised in a slow smirk. “Scandal.”

The word nipped at something deep within him, shook his very foundation. Scandal implied impropriety, a Weasley and a Slytherin, entirely outrageous. Percy found that it excited him, created a quiet buzzing in his thoughts that he’d never felt before. Eagerness like he felt when he first began working at the ministry, or the thrill of receiving Os on his NEWTs. 

He swallowed around a dry lump in his throat and took a sharp breath through his nose. Lucius was closer still, only the width of his cane separating the two. 

“I wasn’t aware that the Yule Ball would bring with it a gathering of aristocrats,” he said finally, unable to pull his gaze from Lucius. “I was under the impression that only those directly involved-”

“Oh?” Lucius raised a brow and brought the snake head of his cane to Percy’s chest. Percy tried to ignore it, and the strange sensation that ghosted up his spine. “Are you not aware whose money it is that funds these frivolous events?”

Frivolous, Percy thought, is exactly how he’d described the whole affair to the ministry. It swelled something like pride or  _ smugness _ in his chest; he  _ was _ right about it, of course, from a business perspective. 

“The Minister informed me that it’s taxes paid by Wizarding society.” That is where he felt comfortable. Discuss work, chat about society, debate politics with someone who agrees with him, because what was the point talking to those who disagreed, if his opinion would never change? “I assumed it was a collective, not one family footing the bill.”

“So naive, Weasley.” Lucius’ voice was so quiet, so perfunctory, and it drew Percy in effortlessly. “You have much to learn if your ambition is to ascend the political ladder.”

The silver snake head of Lucius’ cane chilled the underside of Percy’s chin. Up, confident, forcing his gaze directly into the eyes of Lucius Malfoy. He found his heart racing and he couldn’t blink. 

“I could teach you, you know. Undo the decades of lies your family has taught you.” The smile was back on his face again, almost as if he knew perfectly well the fire he stoked in the younger man. “All you must do, is ask.”

Percy wanted more than anything to close his eyes, to ignore the foreign feelings that caused his hands to tremble at his sides. But, he couldn’t remove the unadulterated desire to watch what would happen next. 

“You know how to find me, Mister Weasley?” Lucius was a breadth away from his ear, their cheeks touching as if old friends greeting one another. A chill passed over Percy’s body. 

He nodded, an action so small he wasn’t actually sure that he’d done it at all. 

And then Lucius was gone.

 

**Ministry of Magic, 1995**

His mother was absolutely  _ insufferable.  _ His father, a  _ traitor _ . Percy thought they’d listen to common sense, that they’d see Dumbledore was a stark raving lunatic hell bent on overthrowing the ministry and taking control of Wizarding Britain. Crazy, they’d called him.  _ Confused _ , his mother said as he packed his bags in the small third bedroom of the Burrow. 

Well, he’d certainly show them. When Dumbledore made his play for the ministry and Percy stood by the minister’s side to defend their centuries-old history, they’d rue the day.

_ Rue. The. Day.  _

Indignant didn’t begin to cover just how put out Percy felt by it all. Betrayed, now that was the word to convey the depth of his feelings toward the Weasley clan. He said as much when he’d run out of the house and apparated away from his mother’s sorrowful tears and pleads. 

A night on a conjured cot at the ministry strengthened his resolve. The next morning he woke with renewed determination, a plan to prove to his family once and for all that their loyalty to Albus Dumbledore was misplaced. In the end, he’d accept nothing less than their vehement apologies for behaving so shockingly poor toward the people who protect their very well being. 

He stood  in front of the mirror and attached a silver pocket watch from the front pocket of his twilight colored robes and quickly checked the time before depositing the timepiece into an inner pocket. Nearly six in the morning, the perfect time for coffee and scones from the trolley witch on the first floor. 

Several minutes later with a black coffee in one hand and a plain scone slathered with jam in the other, Percy strolled into his cramped office and began to draft the proposal for his latest project. Stricter guidelines for representation in front of the Wizengamot, after that spectacle with Dumbledore over the precious summer. A mockery of tradition. Vile. 

“I shouldn’t be surprised to see you here.” The imposing figure of Lucius Malfoy leaned casually against his office door frame as the man’s eyes inspected the head of his cane. 

Percy paused mid-scratch of the quill and gripped the tool tighter between his fingers. His heart hammered and his mouth went dry. It was quite uncomfortable to always feel like a dizzy schoolchild around the man, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He’d looked into it. Extensively. 

“Rumor has it that you’ve forsaken your family for the righteous fight alongside your government.” He sounded proud more than anything, and as his eyes snapped to Percy’s stare, he smiled. “I must say that I admire your tenacity.”

Percy blinked once, twice, and then rolled his tongue around his mouth to keep it from sticking when his words began to tumble from his lips. “It’s a simple assessment of the facts at hand, Mister Malfoy. There is no proof that He Who Must Not Be Named has returned and clearly the Potter boy is delusional. Dumbledore has been ordering Minister Fudge around for too long; he’s obviously seeking total power. I will not allow my government to succumb to such a state, sir. Would you?”

Lucius, who Percy learned was rarely taken by surprise, raised both brows over his eyes and let his cane slide from his firm grasp. He recovered quickly, but not before Percy noticed the small break in the man’s habits and damnit if Percy wasn’t immediately taken with the need to put him back together. 

Lucius tried to cover his surprise with a gruff rumble and then he stepped further into the office. Percy set down his quill and sat back against the cloth chair, folding his hands over his stomach. 

“Your ambition is unrivaled.” Lucius stood opposite Percy and set his cane across the width of Percy’s desk. “I find it… refreshing.”

Percy swallowed and didn’t dare lose eye contact with the man. “One cannot become Minister unless one is prepared to lose those who forsake the ministry.”

“You desire power?” Another look of surprise crossed Lucius’ face and Percy caught himself smiling, perhaps just as rare. 

“I do.” He nodded. “As a middle child, it’s only natural that I’d-”

Lucius raised his hand and cut off Percy’s oncoming diatribe, a feat in itself. “As a close friend of the Minister, I’d like to offer my assistance.”

“Friend or benefactor?” Percy didn’t mean for it to sound as harsh as it did, but there was no gentle way to ask Lucius if he’d bought the Minister’s ear.

“In my personal experience, it is extremely beneficial to be both.” The matter of fact certainty in his tone left no room for argument, though with the man inching ever closer to him, Percy found no desire to argue at all. 

Another first. 

“And which do you believe of us, Lucius?” Percy felt the warm exhale of his breath before he smelled the mint toothpaste tickle his senses. 

Really, he knew he should back up. He should turn and demand Malfoy leave him. But as Lucius’ hand came to his cheek and his fingers gently gripped the sharp edges of his jaw, Percy fumbled for thoughts that weren’t entirely sinful. 

“Neither,” Lucius told him on a deep, long breath. 

Their lips met and Percy wasn’t sure who was the one to lean in first. All he knew was that Lucius’ lips, while thin, covered his so completely that he could only recover breaths through his nose. The heat between them reached sweltering as the man’s hands loosened on his jaw and held him gently at the neck. All Percy could do was curl his fingers into Lucius’ pristine robes and groan a noise of pleasure in the back of his throat.

“You are so bloody out of your depth,” Lucius whispered against his lips. “If your eyes didn’t call to me like a siren-”

“I’m going to stop you right there.” Percy held up his hand and, while he sounded confident enough, he gnawed at the corner of his lip and stared at a spot just above Lucius’ shoulder. “The flowery metaphors are entirely lost on me.”

Lucius pressed their lips together and placed Percy’s hand on his belt. In an instant, Percy was sitting on the edge of his shabby, metal desk, and his robes were pushed swiftly from his shoulders. The robes he’d so meticulously pressed first thing in the morning were now crinkled and messy and reflective of an absolute heathen. 

And frankly, Percy didn’t give a damn. 

 

**Azkaban Prison, 1996**

Harry Potter would be the end of his family. The boy was a glutton for attention, Percy was sure, and even worse he was dragging his youngest brother along on his path to hell. Worse, still, was that his mentor was missing. Mentor, of course, used lightly. Lucius Malfoy was much more to him now. 

Even though Cornelius Fudge himself saw He Who Must Not Be Named, Percy couldn’t believe that it was true. If it were, he’d lose so much. He’d done the wrong things. No, it couldn’t be true. 

But then, where was Lucius? 

They’d tumbled together in the Ministry, cramped in his office, more times than he could count. They’d pressed the emergency button in the lift more often than was proper. He’d opened his flat in London to the Malfoy patriarch on several occasions, and it became habit for Lucius to simply walk through the floo, step into his modest studio layout, and halt any question Percy could possibly ask with a thorough snog against the wall. 

It was three full days since he’d seen him. The longest they’d gone in months. Percy wondered if Lucius simply tired of him, or if Lucius felt his obligation was over now that Percy was declared Junior Assistant to the Minister for Magic.

That was, until he saw the glaring blocky headline in The Daily Prophet. 

**_Lucius Malfoy In Azkaban_ ** , it read. A sick joke, he thought, until he read further and saw “He Who Must Not Be Named” and “Death Eaters” alongside of “Dueling aurors” and “The Hall of Prophecy.” 

It was like being punched in the gut. A hollow, swooping feeling nearly knocked him from his feet. He crumbled the newspaper up and shooed the tweeting bird from his office. As he paced, he became paler and sicker. 

Lucius wasn’t a death eater. He’d said himself years ago that he wasn’t so childish as to follow the whims of the death eaters, hadn’t he? There was only one way to find out.

He stood at the entrance of a dark, cold place. Salty air danced on his tongue while the wind whipped his ginger hair into a chaotic mess on his head. The only thing keeping him warm was a charm placed at his feet, though he could still feel the chill licking at his bones as the water seeped into his shoes.

Azkaban. He’d been here once before, as most ministry officials are required to understand the law and where the law ends. Dementors circled the outside as they haunted the prisoners on the inside. Truly surrounded and immersed in eternal misery. 

Lucius’ face swam through his thoughts and he ached for the pain he suffered. As he handed his wand over to the burly guard on shift, Percy tightened his wool cloak around his body as if that was going to help him retain heat. It wouldn’t. 

He expected the prison to be loud, to hear its inhabitants’ calls of torment to reverberate through the halls, but what he found was worse. It was near silent through the prison. The only sound he could hear was the faint gusts of wind that reminded him about the consuming habits of dementors. An occasional cry found his ears, but mostly the old prison was under an eerie calm. 

When he reached the last row of cells, a guard motioned for him to enter a small room with a solitary lamp for light. He was left alone and to his own thoughts for several minutes before the door clanked open and two sets of footsteps crossing the threshold.

Percy gasped and gripped the iron table to keep himself from running to Lucius. As he staggered forward, the guard let go of his shoulder and backed out of the door. Lucius crumpled into the chair and a curtain of platinum hair hung over the sides of his sallow face. His alabaster skin, that once boasted a flawless complexion, was marred and dirty as if the grime of the prison irreparably coated him. 

“Lucius,” he whispered when he found his voice. 

“What are you doing here, Percy?” The cold, furious words cut through the stale air around them. 

“I-”

But he wasn’t sure, exactly. He’d wanted to see for himself, wanted to prove it couldn’t possibly be true. The Lucius Malfoy he came to know wouldn’t be torn down by a corrupt wizard, he wouldn’t allow himself this kind of desperate ruin.

He swallowed and tried again, fingers gripping the top of the table that separated them and turned the tips white. 

“I didn’t believe what The Prophet said,” he murmured through barely parted lips. 

Lucius’ face cracked into a menacing sort of smirk. It made Percy immediately shameful. “You, a Weasley, didn’t believe that I, a Malfoy, would be found engaging in activities so nefarious as those the Dark Lord deems appropriate?”

“I didn’t, I don’t, I can’t-”

His stutter exhaled through puffed, blushing cheeks and he stared at the angry man opposite him. The man who’d taught him to properly utilize his ambition, to whisper in the ears of the right members of the ministry, the wizard who he was sure had threatened at least one other in order to secure his promotion. Would this man, whose soft hands could solicit the most carnal urges from him, really truly belong to He Who Must Not Be Named?

“You are incredibly naive,” Lucius sneered and turned his head to the direction of the door. He lifted his hand and signaled the guard to come in. “You’d do well to remember that I am not a free man.”

Percy watched the guard grip Lucius by the arm and drag him to the door. He stood up quickly and ran to Lucius, grabbing him by either side of his face. 

“Do  _ not  _ let this place make you believe you’re a monster!” Percy shook him and ignored the guard that aimed his wand towards him. “You’re  _ not _ one of them, do you hear me?”

Lucius growled and whipped his face away from Percy’s hands, but Percy fought to put them back again. Malfoy glared at him through dull, grey eyes, but stopped his fighting.

“You are incredible.” Percy curled his fingers into the grime on Lucius’ face. “You are  _ not _ one of them.”

Lucius breathed sharply through his nose as the guard tugged roughly on his arm. “Percy, you mustn’t wait-”

“I will work day and night to release you,” Percy promised on a whisper. His lips caught Lucius’ swiftly and then he pulled away. “You  _ will _ get out of here.”

The guard grunted and shoved Lucius forward, and Percy grabbed his fingers as he was pulled out of the small chamber. Cold air nipped at him as he watched Lucius being dragged down the corridor and around a corner. 

He slammed his fist into the cement wall. An enraged snarl echoed around him. 

“Damnit, Potter,” he barked when he cast his eyes down and found his knuckles cracked and bleeding. 

 

**The Ministry of Magic, 1997**

“It’s not that simple, Lucius!” 

Percy’s sat on the edge of the bed, hands dug into the silk sheets and press into the mattress. He felt the dip of the bed at his back and barely managed a glance over his bare shoulder. 

“It is incredibly simple, Percy.” Lucius’ voice ghosted across the back of his neck just as his finger meandered down the line of his spine. “The Ministry will be taken and you should be with your family.”

Percy sighed and carded his hand through ruffled hair. He shivered under Lucius’ touch and cursed the man through a deep exhale. 

“They aren’t right,” he explained for what felt like the tenth time since they’d fallen into bed that night. “They’re hiding Potter and they’re drawing attention to themselves; I’m safer here, I’m safer with you.”

Lucius chuckled at his ear, his hand still trailing between the pattern of freckles on his back. His nose nuzzled the soft spot of flesh just below Percy’s ear and he tried  _ so desperately _ to not react. He failed and felt the grin against his skin. 

“I am out of favor with The Dark Lord,” Lucius explained quietly between soft, chaste kisses to Percy’s neck. “I’m out of favor with the ministry. I’m out of favor with Potter. I can offer you no protection.”

“I don’t care for protection, Lucius.” Percy turned his head and the two stared at one another. He didn’t want to back down from this, but Lucius’ eyes were hard and narrow. “If the Ministry is no longer safe, I have  _ nothing  _ but  _ you _ .”

“Your family-” he tried to reason, but Percy shook his head. 

“They’ll never forgive me,” he whispered sadly and pressed himself back against Lucius’ chest. 

Lucius’ breath was just at the tip of his ear as his hands wandered the smaller, thinner frame tucked between his legs. He moved Percy’s hands from the sheets to his thighs and wrapped their hands together. 

“You’ve forgiven me for worse,” he said finally, barely audible over the pounding in Percy’s chest. 

“You’ve done nothing that needs forgiving, Lucius.” He’d said it so many times since Lucius found him after the Azkaban breakout. Percy knew a thing or two about finding yourself caught between what is right and what is easy, and he knew Lucius had no choice but to follow the whims of his maniacal master. 

“You have no idea what I seek forgiveness for,” Lucius said and he forced Percy to turn around fully so that they faced each other. 

Percy couldn’t move a muscle or he’d fall off the edge of the bed and Lucius knew it, if his almost playful smirk was anything to go by. He grabbed for Percy and yanked him onto his chest as he fell back against the sheets. 

“I like to think I have an idea,” he whispered against his lips, giving in once again to the power of the man beneath him. 

When they were sweaty and panting and tangled with one another under the duvet, Percy rested his cheek against Lucius’ thumping chest. He liked it here, where he could see the fruits of his labor, could taste the effort he put into this one, constant thing in his life. 

He probably loved Lucius, he thought, and felt the man squeeze his arm around his waist as if he’d heard him think it. His fingers traced patterns, his favorite runes, over Lucius’ stomach and up to his chest and he found that he couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud.

It was ridiculous to think, too hard to articulate without being a complete juvenile. But as his body thrummed with pleasure under Lucius’ trailing fingers up and down his arm, he knew that what he had with the man wasn’t as simple as a transference of power or a tit for tat.

It was much deeper. 

Far scarier. 

And that’s why, when Lucius began to breathe shallower and Percy was sure he was asleep, he gave life to the traced runes on Lucius’ flesh.

The promise of protection. 

The hope for a future. 

 

**Battle of Hogwarts, 1998**

It’s over. And, by Godric, was he so, so very wrong about it all. Fred forgave him, joked with him even, and yet he was the first Weasley to perish at the hands of He Who Must Not Be Named. Tears unwittingly sprung to Percy’s eyes as he envisioned Fred’s laughing face just before the light left his eyes. 

It was unbearable. He couldn’t reconcile what he’d put the family through with Fred’s instant and unquestioning forgiveness. Every piece of his soul ached with loss and guilt. Shame that would never waver. 

As the Order rallied in the Great Hall, he was pulled along to sit within a sea of redheads who started to mourn the loss that weighed on them all. He couldn’t see through his watery eyes enough to tell whose freckled limb was wrapped around his shoulders, and they all smelled of the smoke from spellfire and salty sweat from running through the castle. As joyous as he should have felt, Percy found himself rather empty as he was passed from Weasley to Weasley as they each forgave him one by one. 

When the atmosphere shifted from grateful for surviving a massacre to shattered by all those who perished around them, the hall grew quiet and morose with everyone breaking off to sit with their kin and absorb the events that took place that evening. 

Medi Witches and the Ministry filtered in and out of the hall, but Percy found he didn’t much care to engage in the politics of it all. Instead, he sat on a bench off to the side of his grieving family and rested his elbow on his knees with his head in his hands. He’d almost lost it all, lost his family, lost his life. He had the scorch marks all over his robes to prove it. And still, all he wanted to know now was that Lucius made it out alive, that he wasn’t one of the nameless death eaters scattered through the rubble inside the school. 

As if he’d heard, and Percy long suspected he could in fact hear his thoughts, Lucius stepped into the hall. His robes, frayed at the end and coated in a thin layer of dust, hung around his frame as he took step after step through the various families inside. No one stopped them from taking a seat only a few benches away, and it was the first time Percy could remember seeing his wife and child since the Quidditch World Cup. 

They made eye contact and Percy tried like hell not to stare at the beatific family. Once again, he was lost in what he wanted and what he’d had, and how things would no longer be the same. 

Lucius scratched at his abdomen absently and clapped his son on the back. He checked in with his wife, whispered something in her ear before he made his way back out of the hall and around a corner. 

He didn’t want to follow. He didn’t think anything good could possibly come from seeing Lucius so soon after the battle, after the fall of the man who’d directed his life for almost two decades. But still, he couldn’t stop his feet from pushing off the floor and carrying him out into the messy and demolished corridor. 

He went left, tripped over a chunk of ceiling and stepped around a fallen portrait. He passed an alcove and a broom closet, but still had no sight of Lucius.

Not until hands reached out from a dark classroom and pulled him inside. They embraced and they kissed and Percy thought he might cry but he forced himself to breathe deep through his nose and calm his emotions before he scared Lucius away. 

“I saw a redhead fall,” Lucius whispered as his fingers found the tip of Percy’s cheek. He stroked the skin there, face appearing in awe to see him alive. “I thought it was you.”

Percy smiled against his fingers and pursed his lips to kiss the tips. “Can’t tell one Weasley from another, Lucius?”

Lucius exhaled a deep chuckle and pulled Percy to his lips. “There are so many of you, like rabbits.”

They pulled away from one another, though Lucius kept his hand in Percy’s. He pulled aside his robes and while Percy misread the situation entirely, Lucius raised a brow as he showed him the pink marks that decorated the skin of his abdomen. 

“Care to explain this?” Lucius asked with a hint of pride in his smirk. 

“I panicked.” Percy reached out and traced the runes he’d placed before. Each times they had protected Lucius, they took a blood sacrifice. He hadn’t told Lucius, had only used them as a precaution. But now it seemed they were well placed. 

“A Weasley and a blood sacrifice?” Lucius held onto Percy’s hand as it caressed the pink scars. “I think you underestimate me, Mister Weasley.”

“How many times did he threaten you?” His eyes were wide as they counted the scars. A dozen, still more to see. 

“I assumed my death was imminent numerous times,” he whispered and sucked in a breath as Percy’s fingers trailed to his hip. “I did wonder what curse had been placed on me, and how I managed to thwart the Dark Lord’s ill will.”

Percy winced. “I should have told you.”

“Indeed,” he agreed with a crooked smile. “And yet, perhaps if you had, this isn’t the end we’d be facing.”

He let the words sink in and it hit him that maybe he wouldn’t be alone after all. Something like hope blossomed underneath the rapid beat of his heart. All of his fighting against his family and then the ministry and finally the death eaters, and he never stopped to consider that maybe, no matter what, there would be something, someone, he could turn to when it was all over. 

“What now?” He asked, because for the first time in his life, Percy had no plan. “I don’t know where to go from here.”

Lucius smoothed a rogue lock of Percy’s hair down and let his palm rest at the side of his face. “There will always be a need for ambition at the ministry. Even with the Dark Lord gone, there is power to be found. Guidance for the new ministry will be invaluable, now more than ever.”

“You think they’d take me back? I was blind before, I chose wrong.” Percy put his hand over Lucius’ and placed a kiss against the skin of his palm. 

“That is not unique to you, Percy.” 

Percy watched the man in front of him, the range of emotion that flitted across his face as the words left him. They were more alike than he’d ever imagined, more than just a benefactor and his inside man. They were, and he wanted to groan and roll his eyes even as the thought presented itself, kindred in a way. They forgave one another the sins and atrocities committed even where no forgiveness could be had, and they reminded one another that the way forward was not brute force as He Who Must Not Be Named believed. 

It was in reinvention, it was in the search for power and in the ambition of persistence. 

“Shall we move forward, then?” Percy asked him and nodded at the door that would lead out to the next phase of their lives. 

When they entered the hall, spaced out in time so that no one suspected their collusion, Percy smoothed out the lapels on his robes, brandished a fine, red poppy from his wand, and pinned it into place where all could see. He stepped forward where the families could see him and he offered them sympathetic smiles and heartfelt condolences. 

Lucius approached him later that night as the castle emptied and stood by his side as they surveyed the damage to the school. Lucius’ hand stroked Percy’s for only an instant before it was on top of the snake head of his cane in his usual, aristocratic stance.

“If there is one thing the Dark Lord was right about,” Lucius said as he caught eyes with Percy and a smirk appeared on his face, “it’s that there is only power and those too weak to seek it.”


End file.
